


Hissing Drake

by DraconicSeraphim



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Biting, Dorian's pride makes him foolish, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Morning After, Resolved Sexual Tension, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraconicSeraphim/pseuds/DraconicSeraphim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hissing Drake: A bold mix of cinnamon-infused whiskey, dark Llomerryn rum, and Hirol's Lava Burst. Not for the faint of stomach. (or heart!)</p>
<p>Now if only someone had warned Dorian that Maraas-Lok is even stronger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hissing Drake

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt at writing anything in this fandom. I'm super behind getting into this fandom but this pairing is too perfect not to write something. Highly likely there will be a second part to this... at least if my girlfriend has things her way. :D Feedback is lovely and greatly appreciated.

The first thing Dorian became aware of was that he was cold. It was a state he should have gotten used to by now. Even on what most of these Fereldans would call a “warm summer day” it was still chilly by his standards. So high in the mountains chilly was about the best it ever got, more often than not it was wet and cold. Sometimes it was even wet and frigid. 

 

Cold as a state of being shouldn’t be terribly surprising but this time… this time it was. The perpetual chill of Skyhold was precisely why he’d taken as interior a room as he could find. He never entered the room without immediately casting a flame into the grate and even then he had mounded his bed with all the blankets he could find. Blankets only, mind you. He was not some heathen to sleep beneath the pelts of common beasts.

 

This one time the cold was strange. This wasn’t the chill of a dying fire or of a hand that traitorously escaped the cocoon he wrapped himself in. Instead it was a bone deep aching kind of cold. The kind that made every breath hurt for the abuse to his frozen nasal passage. He groaned, rolling onto his side and reaching to pull a blanket further up around him… and found only his cloak.

 

His  _ cloak _ ?

 

Pale eyes opened just enough to squint up at the ceiling in confusion, his normally swift mind sluggish and hazy. Now that he’d opened his eyes even that fraction he was violently reminded of the volume of liquor he’d consumed the night prior. The evening was strangely surreal, barely acceptable Antivan wine giving way to something distasteful and Fereldan. He could still taste the cinnamon fire on his tongue where he had, at some point, been dragged into a round with the Chargers. 

 

_ The flask that had been passed between them coming from The Iron Bull’s belt and Dorian had choked and gasped, even as tipsy as he was. It was his pride that burned when Bull laughed uproariously at the mage’s discomfort that made him take another drink, choking it down with less grace than even the Fereldan swill he’d been drinking earlier. _

 

_ There had been humour in Bull’s voice when he insisted it was no surprise and really he didn’t have to offend his delicate sensibilities just to prove he could handle the Qunari liquor. Which had only pushed Dorian’s stubborn arrogance to a whole new level of foolishness. Which was absurd because Dorian and the Bull were already constantly at each others throats, bantering and bickering endlessly. Because surely Dorian couldn’t stand the Qunari brute. Not at all because of how refreshingly exquisite it was to have someone whom he could banter with. _

 

_ Bantering was the last thing Dorian had any right to attempt, though. Not with enough alcohol in his system that his best retort to Bull’s questioning of his ability to hold his liquor had been strolling up to the man, raising one elegant brow, and tilting his head back to drain what was left in that flask. It was only a few swallows, thank the Maker. Bull had been letting his boys take nips off it all evening. Still those few swallows were enough to make Dorian’s eyes burn and his world tilt a little. He composed himself remarkably well, however. Sheer determination forcing back another coughing fit as he lowered his head and offered the flask to The Iron Bull. _

 

_ That composure started unravelling when he saw the look Bull was giving him. His lips still pulled to one side in a smirk but the feeling wasn’t in it, not anymore. It wasn’t amusement in his gaze but something darker, something hotter, something that nearly made Dorian’s knees give out right then and there. He could have blamed the alcohol, saved his pride and his reputation, not acted on any of the mad impulses rushing through his mind, too quick to even begin to keep up with.  _

 

_ Without even deciding what he was going to do Dorian found his feet moving, taking a step closer when Bull didn’t immediately reach for that flask. The mage leaned forward, pushed himself into Bull’s space, one hand coming up to splay against the center of that broad chest, steadying himself as his other hand, the one with the flask, ghosted down Bull’s side. He felt the rumbling growl beneath his hand before it reached his ears and his lips parted, sucking in a sharp breath. Then he found what he was looking for, usually deft fingers clumsy as he snapped the clip on the flask back to the loop set into the other man’s belt.  _

 

_ Somewhere behind him he was vaguely aware of catcalls from the Chargers but all he could focus on was the heat of the skin beneath his hand, the steady rumble vibrating through him, the smell of leather and metal and that strange herbal tang from horn balm. He moved to straighten again, to take a step back and suddenly one wide arm was wrapped around his waist, yanking him forward instead, pinned to Bull’s chest. He hadn’t even realized or meant to step between the man’s legs but apparently he had and now, suddenly he was very aware of how interested the warrior was in his little show.  _

 

_ For a moment everything stopped, a gasp on his lips as he was encompassed by Bull’s hold on him, leaning into him, pride be damned. And then abruptly the world had gone spinning dangerously, one vast hand on his ass, heaving the mage over Bull’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes… or a conquest. _

 

_ “Fasta vass, you great oaf. What do you think you’re doing!?” He had snarled but his words were more than a little slurred and he found he had to keep his eyes and his mouth closed lest he empty the contents of his stomach down Bull’s back.  _

 

Kaffas, had Bull really carried him out of the tavern over his shoulder like some prize to be plundered? Had he  _ really _ let that happen? Dorian groaned, forcing himself onto his side enough to glare mournfully at the empty grate where he’d clearly failed to light a fire when he’d trudged back to his own room in the wee hours of the morning. No wonder he was freezing. A wave of his fingers and a spark of magic ignited the wood there and his head swam dangerously, leaving Dorian to scramble off the bed before he retched. Nothing but liquid and fire came up and he cursed again as his head began to throb violently. 

 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and hissed in pain, scowling at the unexpected ache in his lip briefly. Andraste’s ass what had happened to him last night? Dragging himself up from the floor required a great deal more effort than it normally would. The cold had only set the aches in his body to worsening with the tightening of muscles and he again scowled at the fireplace, though it now glowed cheerily, heat finally starting to seep into the room. The floor he would tend to later, he promised himself, once his stomach quieted and his headache eased. 

 

His steps were uneven as he moved to his dresser, reaching first for one of those foul elfroot concoctions that were so very necessary to survival out in the field but which he had hoped to never taste again when home at Skyhold. Home… when had Skyhold become synonymous with that word? Dorian frowned as he downed the potion in a few quick swallows as though drinking it faster would ease the taste. Tipping his head back so far made his neck ache and he was left with the question of what in the blazes he’d allowed to happen last night. 

 

The mirror carefully hung inside his wardrobe door cost a small fortune but, so far as Dorian was concerned it was an absolute necessity. More often he was looking at himself as he was dressing rather than the other way around. By the time he’d opened the wardrobe door his head was beginning to calm and a measure of his usual grace had returned. Fingers made quick work of the clasp to his cloak, lifting it to drape over the nearby chair and then he was turning to face the mirror, silvered gaze wide and startled as he looked at himself in the mirror.

 

Dorian was no pale, delicate creature like some of the elven members of the inquisition. His copper skin was darker than most, leaving himself and Josephine to stand out as Northerns in a sea of paler Orlesian faces. Abruptly Dorian was grateful for this fact as he was quite certain that, were his skin a single shade lighter, he’d have looked even more like he’d been mauled than he already did. As it was his lips stood out, a red so deep his lower lip was almost purple, swollen and tender. Copper skin was dark in patches all along his throat, his collarbone, and lower. He began peeling off the layers of his clothing from the night before, grimacing at the way he’d mangled buckles and pulled leather over sweat dampened skin in his hurry to get back to his own room. 

 

He hissed as the last buckle came free and his shirt, harness, and belts all clattered to the floor in one tangled heap. “Kaffas…” Not an exclamation but an awed curse as he let his fingers trace over a dark crimson welt just over his right nipple, the ring of Bull’s teeth clearly imprinted in his flesh. And damn it all if his staff harness wouldn’t rub against that for days to come. Pale lines scored along his sides, the top most layers of skin peeling back from the light scrapes. Dorian traced those as well, memory coming fast and vivid.

 

_ Bull’s hands on his hips, lifting him up even as the larger man collapsed back onto the bed. In a testament to the sturdiness of Ferelden furniture it didn’t make so much as a whisper at the force with which they fell onto it. Dorians fingers dug into the tops of Bull’s shoulders, pulling himself up against him, legs untangling from the other’s so that he could straddle his hips. The haste with which he moved brought a low rolling chuckle from the Qunari, scarred lips spreading in a grin beneath his own. Warm hands smoothed up his back and Dorian growled into his mouth, pushing harder into him.  _

 

_ That growl broke into a gasp as Dorian finally shifted just so, spread his legs further so the muscles ached ever so slightly and he could feel the length of the other man firm against him… and against his belly and the sheer size of Bull finally struck him. Silver eyes refocused on the warrior beneath him for a fleeting moment and then hands were skidding swiftly down his sides, nails that weren’t quite claws scoring his skin with fine delicate red lines. And then Bull’s hands closed over Dorian’s hips, almost wide enough for his fingertips to touch over the swell of his ass. _

 

_ “Fuck!” Bull ground the word out between clenched teeth, his own grey gaze darkened with lust until it was nearly black, a shudder running down his spine even as he rocked his hips up against the mage, copper fingers digging into the skin of his shoulder. “Dorian.”  _

 

_ And for a fleeting moment Dorian’s name had never sounded so beautiful. _

 

His cheeks flushed slightly as he finally let his gaze down to rest on the waistband of his leggings, the supple suede only covering perhaps a third of the vast handprints that marred his skin. Not true handprints unless you knew what you were looking for. Bull’s grip had shifted and adjusted so many times that one bruise bled into another and he was quite certain that, had he not taken a potion already the ridge of bone there would have had black skin over it. 

 

His pants, however, fared far worse than his body in respect to discoloration and he wrinkled his nose as he dragged and tugged and -oh sweet merciful maker-  _ peeled _ the smooth fabric away from his skin. His thighs were a mess, an absolute disaster that made Dorian wish he hadn’t drank quite so much because he didn’t dare tempt his head to resume pounding by using magic but he wasn’t sure any mere soap and water concoction could rid his skin of the thick layers of residue, still tacky in the creases where his body heat had kept it from drying fully and flaking off across the rest of his skin.

 

Even as he cursed and cringed and fished a cloth from a drawer to dip into the water basin on the dresser he had to admit, bruised and battered as he was, it was quite probably still worth it.

 

Worth it to feel the release of so many tensions between them, a final culmination of the dance he could admit, at least to himself, they’d been performing for months. Worth it to final feel the other man’s strength in the hands on him, to feel the fierce heat of his kisses and his need, breathtaking in a way Dorian barely had words for but that he would keep close for as long as the fragmented memories remained.

 

_ It was not like Dorian to drink so much that he staggered when he all but threw himself off the bed in a desperate bid to remove the last of his clothing. Nor so much that he actually fell on his ass in his scramble to get his fucking boots off. “Venhedis!” A frustrated shout and he glanced helplessly up to see Bull sprawled on his bed, centered now instead of only half on the foot. Those maker-cursed pants of his were piled on the floor and Dorian’s mouth went dry as he had the opportunity to take in all that glorious silver skin for the first time. He moved as though he meant to touch the other man and Bull grinned at him, reaching into the drawer of his bedside table to withdraw a vial.  _

 

_ “Need a hand, big guy?” He teased and Dorian snarled at him, wrenching his boots off, still half buckled. His pants followed much faster and he was on top of Bull before the other man could even begin to formulate another tease. That grin fell beneath his lips and Dorian’s fingers clung hard to the muscle of Bull’s upper arms. A grip that doesn’t hinder Bull from moving in the slightest and swollen lips part to moan when thick bands of muscle and sinew shift and bunch under his hands.  _

 

_ He moans again, needy and wanton when Bull’s weight settles over him, the larger man effortlessly swapping their positions and setting his teeth to that pouting lip, worrying it between his teeth as one hand fumbled with the lid to that jar. Dorian melted under him, alcohol hazed mind briefly contemplating the physics of what was about to happen. Fire and want overran any attempt at logic swiftly enough though. Which meant it was good that Bull could handle his maraas-lok much better than Dorian.  _

 

_ One large hand spread Dorian’s legs, slick fingers skimming over his skin, nails scraping. Teasing fingers lifted to trace over his cock, toying with his balls, vanishing and returning with more oil… and again with more. When Dorian was about to beg, insist that he was being a wasteful tease and weren’t Qunari supposed to be efficient or something, he realized the purpose behind Bull’s actions. The next time it wasn’t his fingers scoring lines along the tender flesh of his inner thighs. Dorian tried to grin, his lip still held captive at first and then burning sharply as it popped free of Bull’s teeth.  _

 

_ Dorian shifted, pressing his thighs together as Bull pushed down against him, his cock trapped between the mage’s powerful thighs. The tip of him slid back along Dorian’s ass and feeling how large the other was made him wonder fleetingly what on earth he had been thinking. If Bull had fucked him like this Dorian was quite certain the other man would have torn him apart. But like this, like this they were still flush against each other, panting in each other’s breaths as Bull rocked his hips down, Dorian crossing his ankles and clenching his muscles to keep the pressure around the other man. As they moved Dorian’s own hardness was trapped between their bellies, leaving the mage to grind up against Bull just as he moved down against him.  _

 

_ He’d be a horrible sticky mess when all was said and done and for the first time since he’d met The Iron Bull… Dorian didn’t fucking care. _

 

Okay so maybe he cared a little bit  _ now _ . Only because of his own foolishness. Why hadn’t he insisted on cleaning up when they were done? Another fault of drinking so very much, to be sure. It wasn’t until Dorian was mostly finished scrubbing at his thighs that he shuffled over to the mirror again, looking at his reflection in wonder. His  _ thighs _ were bruised. Bull hadn’t even fucked him and he would be unable to walk right or -Maker forbid- ride a horse for days at least. The realization had heat curling in his belly despite his aches and hangover. 

 

His head throbbed painfully but he cast about for a small bit of magic, just enough to clean the floor, mostly because of the smell… and perhaps because some small part of him wasn’t quite ready to rid himself completely of the evidence of the previous night. 

 

This time when he crawled into his bed it was deliciously naked and aching from head to toe, with a fire burning and buried beneath the weight of blankets that might have reminded him ever so slightly of the man whose bed he’d shared for a time.

  
  



End file.
